


Four Minutes

by sailormade



Series: Whumptober 2019 / SEAL Team. [2]
Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Gen, Heavy Angst, Season/Series 02, Whumptober 2019, i'm absolutely not sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 07:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20944589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailormade/pseuds/sailormade
Summary: A large chunk of concrete crashed to the ground nearby. Trent flinched and pressed his forehead against Clay's harder, curled his fingers into his matted hair tighter."Our Father, who art in Heaven," He began to pray, heart threatening to race right out of his chest. "Hallowed be thy name, Thy kingdom come. . ."—Whumptober 2019.Prompts Used: 17. "Stay With Me." & 7. Isolation. & 4. Human Shield.





	Four Minutes

**Author's Note:**

> A very short, hopefully very powerful one. This one was as fun to write as it was painful! Let me know what you guys think of this short, flash-fiction style. I'm havin' a ball with whumptober!

"Stay with me," Trent said hoarsely, cradling Clay's head in hands. "Please, Spenser, stay with me. Please." 

It was a childish, futile thing to ask; A half-assed wish on a burnt out star. They weren't getting out the basement alive. There was no hope left to spare. Trent knew that as well as Clay did before he died.

Clay had been dead, officially, for about four minutes. His body was still deceptively warm, and his joints were still fluid and loose, his limbs easy to maneuver—rigor mortis wouldn't set in for another three hours, but Trent knew that he himself would be dead by then, too; He wasn’t nearly as wounded as Clay, but nothing short of an act of God would keep the building from crumbling down on top of them. 

He briefly considered laying down next to Clay and holding him, instead of continuing to lay on top of him; Once the rigor mortis set in, it'd be hard to pry their bodies apart. But Trent couldn't bring himself to. He'd used his body as a living shield to protect Clay from the falling debris just fifteen minutes ago, when Clay was still cracking jokes, and he would gladly die using his body to protect Clay's corpse.

Clay's body was mangled by the explosion, and soaked in blood and the puss from fresh, aggravated blisters, and his left foot was on the other side of the room, but he was mostly in-tact otherwise. His organs were still on the inside of him, and his face was easily recognizable, behind the dust and blood and vomit. Trent wanted him to have an open-casket funeral. He deserved that. So did Stella and Adam Seaver, and the rest of Bravo. They and Clay both deserved a dignified goodbye. 

"Stay with me," Trent said again, pressing his forehead against Clay's. "Stay with me, little brother. I'm here with you. I’m here." 

Someone, somewhere once said that the soul lingered by its body after death for a brief period. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. Trent wasn’t sure whether he believed in that or not, but down here, in the dim, dim, crumbling basement, knowing that he'd be crushed to death soon, he believed it; He had to believe it. That was the only fucking way that he could make it through this nightmare. Him and Clay walked in together, and they’d walk to the gates of Heaven together. 

God, he felt afraid. He felt absolutely terrified. Tears stung his eyes. The eleventh hour had come, and it was drawing to a close. Trent had lived almost forty years, and he'd had a great love and beautiful, wonderful children, and he'd served his country honorably and with valor, and now? Now, it was his time to die. To rest. 

Trent wanted to sob. And wail. And scream in fury. All he needed was a little more time, just a few more years. . . His little girls weren't even six yet. He'd never see them grow. Never see them learn and discover and thrive. He'd never feel them crawl into his bed on Saturday morning and snuggle up under either arm until he tickled them awake again. And he’d never kiss his sweet, brave Mary again, his wife of sixteen years. His great, larger-than-life, end-all/be-all love. And Clay. . . 

Clay hadn't even made it to thirty. His heart stopped when he was twenty eight, unwed and still so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, eager for everything that life had to offer. 

A large chunk of concrete crashed to the ground nearby. Trent flinched and pressed his forehead against Clay's harder, curled his fingers into his matted hair tighter. 

"Our Father, who art in Heaven," He began to pray, heart threatening to race right out of his chest. "Hallowed be thy name, Thy kingdom come. . ." 

Trent doesn't see the slab of concrete coming. It fell from directly above, directly on top of him and Clay. He was dead before the end of his prayer. 


End file.
